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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27980985">At the End of December</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcicioni/pseuds/mcicioni'>mcicioni</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnificent Seven (1960)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Christmas Story, M/M, vaguely fluffy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 16:55:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,474</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27980985</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcicioni/pseuds/mcicioni</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris and Vin meet a few times a year, including at the end of December.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Chris Adams/Vin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>At the End of December</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Again and again, my gratitude to darcyone, who regularly gives me her time and her language skills.</p><p>My gratitude also to anyone kind enough to read and comment.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Vin lives in Santa Fe and works as a security guard for the new railroad between Santa Fe and Albuquerque. Chris is sheriff of Las Cruces, not far from the border. Neither of them is much of a letter writer, but three or four times a year one of them goes to the telegraph office, and the other gets the wire, smiles to himself, wires back and waits. Occasionally one of them just turns up on the other’s doorstep without wiring first, just for the hell of it, and the other drops all previous commitments and gets the good whisky out of the cupboard.</p><p>Neither of them has a family. Too much has happened in the past, too much of it could never be revealed to a woman. With each other, it’s easier: some of their past is shared, and what can’t be spoken of remains unsaid, lying behind them, never between them.</p><p>The end of December isn’t an easy time. Trees, carols, church services, deliberate striving for cheer and good fellowship. And then comes the end of the year, with its inevitable bookkeeping of good, bad and indifferent, and the vague hopes that the year to come will bring something better, although they can’t think what, or why. So, some time between 24 December and 1 January the two of them spend a few days together, barely mentioning the season. If it has been snowing, they tramp around the woods on foot; if it hasn’t, they go for rides. They make an effort to cook something that isn’t steak or pork or biscuits or beans, and they’re quiet together in front of the fire, their legs stretched out, each with a small drink, Chris smoking. They enjoy every moment, maybe because it’s a break from everyday life. </p><p>In the bedroom, what happens can be long and leisurely, or brief and rough, it’s good either way. Just lying together is good too, each body making small movements to settle comfortably against the other, skin touching skin, each man feeling free to groan with satisfaction or grunt when a twinge or a stab in a hip or a shoulder reminds him that he, like his friend, is not getting any younger.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>This time, Vin gets off the stage (the railway is yet to come to Las Cruces), stretches, grabs his carpet bag and quickly opens it to make sure that the two wrapped parcels – one square, one cylindrical – are still there and still in one piece. The other passengers are met by wives, children, grandchildren, in a flurry of exclamations, giggles, questions and hugs. Vin strides out of the depot, shivering as the chilly air bites into him.</p><p>Chris is standing on the other side of the street, smoking. The bags under his eyes seem deeper and darker than they were three months ago. The skin on his throat is a little looser.</p><p>“Vin,” he says, and his eyes light up, and it’s enough. </p><p>“Chris,” Vin replies, letting a smile break out on his face, and easily falling into step with Chris, walking towards his small house that’s just outside town.</p><p>Chris shuts the door. The place is tidy and clean, the fire is burning, some nice warm smells are coming from the oven, there are dishes and cutlery on the table. The door that leads to the bedroom is open.</p><p>“You hungry? Thirsty?”</p><p>Vin laughs. “Don’t be the polite host. You know what I want first.” He takes off his hat and gunbelt, grabs Chris’s face with both hands and kisses him, hard and deep. “Bed. Now.”</p><p>Chris breaks the kiss, holds Vin at arm’s length and looks him over, eyes very dark and very intense. Without a word, he pushes Vin backwards through the doorway and onto the bed, and unbuckles his gunbelt and trouser belt. He reaches for a small bottle of oil that is on the floor by the bed.</p><p>“So,” he says.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>When they get up, the chicken is very well-done, and the potatoes are only half-burned. They exchange a few relaxed words during the meal, about their jobs, their daily lives, acquaintances in their communities. Neither asks the other whether he has shared his bed with anyone else.</p><p>“Anyway,” Vin says after a while. He gets up, goes to his bag, pulls out the two wrapped objects, hands them over. “Merry Christmas,” he says, only half ironically.</p><p>Chris is getting something out of the chest where he keeps his clothes and bedding. It’s a soft parcel, not very big. “Same to you.”</p><p>Vin opens his gift first. It’s a shirt, the material smooth and yielding, unlike the half a dozen work shirts he already owns. It’s deep blue, not too dark, with small mother-of-pearl buttons. Chris’s presents generally are useful, serviceable things, work gloves, a woollen scarf, field glasses. This is different. Vin has never had anything as fine as this.</p><p>“Classy,” he says, smiling broadly. “Stylish. Just the thing for train robbers to shoot a hole through.”</p><p>Chris raises his eyebrows as he unwraps the bottle of Louisiana bourbon. Vin shrugs. “Know a salesman who’s got kinfolk in New Orleans,” he says. “He got it for me from the French Quarter.” He jerks his head towards the still-wrapped book. “Like your other present.”</p><p>Chris’s eyebrows go up a little more. <i>“Life on the Mississippi</i>. By Mark Twain. I’ll be damned.”</p><p>“Probably,” Vin says, straight-faced. “Hope you like it. I want to borrow it after you’re finished with it.” He gives Chris a lopsided grin. “Haven’t given up hope that we can take a trip there. Maybe when we’re old and grey and unable to have any fun.” Another thought tries to jump out, but he shoves it back, fast, and looks down at the shirt.</p><p>“I’ll take you. Some day. Your other present is out of the window, unless some kid stole it when we were otherwise occupied.”</p><p>Freezing air rushes in as Vin opens the window and grabs the sealed cardboard box that’s sitting on the sill. It’s a cake, covered in fresh cream. “Perfect,’ he says, carefully hiding a smirk at the thought of other possible uses for fresh cream, later on. “Thanks.”</p><p>Chris steps up closer and runs his thumb down the creases at the sides of Vin’s mouth, pressing it lightly into the dimple on Vin’s cheek. “You’re welcome,” he says, and Vin also hears the unspoken <i>in all senses of the word</i>, and feels warm, in all senses of the word.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“Have a safe trip back. And take care of yourself.”</p><p>“You too.”</p><p>Vin is about to get into the stage. His new shirt will probably be covered in dust and dirt after an hour or two, but he looks good in it, the soft blue material bringing out the colour of his eyes, and also the first few grey hairs in his short blond mop.</p><p>“I’ll take you to New Orleans. Some time this year,” Chris says, meaning it. “We can sample life on the Mississippi. If it doesn’t flood.”</p><p>“Countin on it.” Vin’s smile could warm up the freezing section of Hell, let alone the stage depot. Then he says, “Hey, Chris,” and two light fingertips touch the new bruise on Chris’s neck, “Next time I’ll bring you a bandana.” Chris rolls his eyes, it’s an old joke between them: every new visit there’s a new bruise, and the promised bandana never materialises.</p><p>As the stage trundles out of sight, Chris asks himself – as he does every time Vin visits -  what it would be like if Vin found a job at Las Cruces, on a ranch, or as a stage shotgun guard, or as his deputy. Would they be able to live side by side, or together? Like every other time, he shakes his head. No, they almost certainly wouldn’t, they’re used to being on their own, and domesticity is a foreign notion to both. He guesses that Vin feels the same way, but they’ve never talked about it, neither of them has ever brought the topic up.</p><p>He sighs, with longing and relief in equal parts, and starts walking back towards his office: he needs to check the cells, where the vicious drunks he arrested last night with Vin’s help are probably dealing with their New Year hangovers. And he wants to drop in at the doctor’s, to find out which husbands beat up on their wives and kids during the holiday season.</p><p>He lights a cigar and keeps walking. When he gets home, he’ll clean up the mess left by Vin, scrape some more cream off the floorboards, and start planning. If they give enough notice at their jobs, they’ll easily find replacements for a couple of weeks in March or April. New Orleans is at its best in the spring, and Vin has never been on a steamboat.</p>
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